Instead, Jude rests his head back against the wall. He is a shadow cloaked in shadows. He hasn’t once met my gaze. “Well, that’s a comfort,” he says, and I hate how unfeeling he sounds, when it’s plain he must be feeling a great deal. “I think the police mean to keep me here a while longer.”
“I’ll talk to them. I’m going to get you out.”
“Fine.” At last his eyes settle on mine. “Let’s say you do. What of Daugherty? Do you think he’ll permit my return to the lighthouse?”
Now I realize: This is the root of what really plagues him.
“That’s your post, Jude.” I falter, unsure. “Once your name is clear, he’ll have no choice…”
“It’s been my family and no other working that light for generations. My ancestors walked that staircase. They trimmed the wicks and stood on the gallery deck just as I do.” He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I felt the press of those years—felt them watching over me. I was meant to add my page to that book, but now I—I’ve broken the line. I’ve ruined it.”
“Jude, stop.” My voice is thick, my heart aching like his words have run me through. “You haven’t ruined anything. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
He sets a hand on the floor, fingers splayed. “I must ask something of you, Moira.”
I nod. “Anything at all.”
“However long I’m in here”—he pauses, biting his lip—“don’t visit the lighthouse. Don’t speak with my uncle.” He rubs his palm against his trouser knee, dark eyes gleaming. “Stay away altogether. Promise me, please.”
“I promise.” I believe it would hurt too much, anyway—going back when Jude himself isn’t free to do so.
He bows his head. “Thank you.”
After I leave him, the storm inside me seethes. I’m awash in it, rage boiling over until I’m shaking. If Jude were not here and I was given a match, I think perhaps I’d burn the whole place to the ground. I march down the hall to Thackery’s office, banging my fist against the door.
“Yes, Miss Alexander, do come in.”
I bring the tempest to him. My hands slam down on his desk, hard as a wave smashing up against the island. “I’ll grant you the generosity of thinking you’ve made a mistake,” I tell him, “but you’ve imprisoned a good man, and I demand you release him at once.”
Detective Thackery considers me with disinterest. “Your idea of what constitutes good in a man is too broad, Miss Alexander. We’ve a suspected murderer behind bars.”
“You suspect Jude Osric because he found Connor on the beach? Because he reported it? You’re punishing him for doing what he’s tasked as keeper.”
There is little in Jude’s power to alleviate disaster, when it comes. A fishing boat might run aground on the rocks, some iron-less sailor might be charmed overboard by sirens, but Jude can’t save everyone from the perils of the sea. Nor is he expected to. He is meant only to report the occurrences.
He is meant to keep the light.
“I’m not required to present our findings to you.” Thackery folds his hands over his lacquered desk. “Miss Alexander, you reminded me that I ought to investigate every avenue. You directed us to look for a human killer. At the moment Mr. Osric is our prime suspect.”
“You can’t keep him in that cell forever. You can’t.”
Thackery hums. Looking elsewhere, he says, “It’s true we can’t hold him indefinitely. Not without solid evidence.” He unfolds his clasped hands to tap twice against the edge of his desk. “We’ll be releasing Mr. Osric no later than tomorrow.”
Relief rushes over me, cold and clean. I draw back, straightening up. “And what of his position? I do hope unfounded suspicion won’t deprive him of his livelihood.”
Thackery’s gaze swings back around. A muscle twitches in his jaw. “I’ll speak with Mr. Daugherty,” he says cautiously. “I’m sure he’ll reinstate Mr. Osric as keeper. Provided he’s innocent, he won’t be removed from his posting.”
“Very good.” I head for the door, but as I reach it, I turn back. “Sir, why did you do it? Why reopen the case?” Hope flutters in my rib cage, but fear stills it in one fell swoop. Even if the police no longer fault the sirens, they have a poor handle on things going by their first arrest. “Do you not think sirens attacked Connor after all?”
“My thoughts haven’t changed, Miss Alexander. You’d do well to remember that.”
“Right.” I grind my teeth. “Well, sir, I’d say good day, but it’d be quite the lie with Jude Osric sitting in jail.”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your concern,” he says, eyeing me. “This is police business—something I suggest you keep in mind.”
I stare back at him. “Mr. Osric is my friend. Connor Sheahan was a student of mine. Perhaps you ought to keep that in mind, sir.”
“Take care, Miss Alexander.”
Out on the cobblestones, I push my hands deep into the pockets of my coat. I make my way toward the moors, toward home, but I feel directionless even as my feet set me on the path. I’ve no idea how to solve a murder. I’ve no idea how to set things right. A killer walks free, going about their day, while Jude Osric is under lock and key for their crimes.
Frustration grips me. If the murderer did mean to frame the sirens, what purpose did it serve?
In Lochlan, I know, records of siren attacks are kept in the library. If indeed Connor’s death was made to mirror them, perhaps they’re worth a look.
It’s not much. But it’s a start.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I SURVEY THE HARBOR from beneath the curve of my umbrella. It’s been raining on and off all morning, making the docks slick underfoot. There’s a chill in the air, and my breath escapes in a mist. I dig my free hand into the pocket of my long coat. For God’s sake, September is not meant to be this cold.
I stare down at the vacant boats, all of them with flaked paint, tangled knots, unclean sails. More than a dozen masts pierce the gray sky. Of the several faces I recognize, it’s Gabriel Flint who’s first to notice me. From the boathouse, he grins wide enough to reveal his chipped incisor. He wears no hat, and the dampness has given his blond hair a cowlick that curls back from his forehead. Driving his fillet knife into the cutting table, he heads over to where I stand.
“Moira Alexander,” he says. “A pleasure to have you here on such a foul day.”
“Keep away from me, Flint.”
He does quite the opposite, offering his arm as if I’m fool enough to take it. I skirt around him. He’s quick to follow after, saying, “You’re not still angry with me, are you? My, you know how to hold a grudge, girl.”
Inside my coat pocket, my fingers twitch with the desire to seize him by the collar and pitch him over the side of the dock.
“Is that why you stopped playing at the hall?” he asks. “Just to spite me?”
Ignoring him, I continue down the pier, passing rowboats and fishing trawlers. Warren Knox straightens up after securing one of the trawlers and makes his way toward us. It seems I’m not the only one wanting to take Flint by the collar—Warren does so as he passes us, pulling him to a stop. “Where do you think you’re rushing off to?” he growls. “There’s still work to be done.”